


not giving up, just giving in (and never letting me go)

by flailingthroughsanity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, This was supposed to be short but it got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 20:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: “I can’t believe you actually said that,” Keith manages to get out, voice hoarse and winded through gritted teeth. Shiro hums, and the lap of his tongue has Keith closing his eyes as he collapses back on to bed.Shiro pauses, looking up at him, heated taupe searing his skin raw. “It’s only polite to give thanks before eating, right?”Fourth anniversary. Japan. Shiro being a smartass. Keith isn’t amused at all (he is, he’s just going to keep denying it). Nothing is wrong and everything is perfect, as it should be.





	not giving up, just giving in (and never letting me go)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcadenemesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadenemesis/gifts), [LogicDive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicDive/gifts).



> This was written...for a very funny reason. I blame everyone but myself, especially the NSFW discord server. ; A;
> 
> Stand alone, but does make references to [as high as hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197579) aka space academy boys as roommates ; A;

 

**not giving up, just giving in (and never letting me go)**

* * *

 

 

Akihabara glowed—eternal and blinding, neon mechanical lights reaching up, a kaleidoscope of flashing signs from each corner. Sidewalks and alleys teeming with people—business men, wildly dressed high schoolers, the occasional hooligan with their buddies—interspersed with shops and stores brightly lit and bursting with merchandise. When night has fallen, this part of Tokyo is shining—-gleaming—enough to offset even the stars. It’s the place one would like to wander until their feet fell, or they doubled over and passed out in exhaustion. Keith would have loved to be down there, sightseeing like they originally planned but his dumb husband apparently had a different thing in mind altogether.

Shiro has him against the wall of their hotel room, bulky form crowding him, lips against his. Keith’s hands are around the other’s shoulders, fingers trailing the slightly-rough texture of Shiro’s coat, his husband’s own hands running down his sides. Shiro angles his head to the side, lips searing against Keith’s, and like always—more than a decade in the running—he can’t help but open his lips, tasting the lasting bite of sake on his tongue as Shiro kisses him even deeper.

“Thought—” Keith manages to breathe out, past the infinitesimal space between their lips, his hands bunched up over Shiro’s shoulder. His husband, the asshole, decides to attack his jaw, teeth grazing the line and has Keith panting instead of actually breathing the normal way. “—thought, hmm, we were. Checking—ugh—sights.”

He feels Shiro’s lips curl into a smile against his skin, feels the weight of his husband on him—heavy and large, too-large, larger than life—and the press of Shiro’s thigh against his hip, the hand on his hip and the other running up his back in between the wall. “I’m checking out a sight right now.”

Keith wants to roll his eyes, his spirit probably did it for him already, as he tries to say something, only to get cut short as Shiro starts mouthing at his neck. “Fuck, Shiro—shouldn’t have drank that much—that much.”

There’s a bite to his jaw—light enough not to bruise, strong enough for Keith to groan, head falling back against the wall as his entire body struggles to stay upright—and Shiro starts licking around the mark, tenderly. “You are an animal, Shir—fuck.”

“Just for you,” Shiro whispers against the lobe of his ear before leaning back to look at him, half-lidded eyes, and taupe turned dark gold in the low light, and Keith has a smartass response halfway up his throat, stuck. His husband leans in, pressing a kiss against the space under his lower lip, slowly rising and Keith can only hum, run a hand up the back of Shiro’s head and feel the hair against his fingers.

And—

He can’t really say anything, not with Shiro over him like this. It’s always been like this—Shiro’s size, the intensity of his touch, the brightness of his smile—all of it, blinding and searing and crackling over his skin like tendrils of lightning. There’s no line of coherence, no intellect behind his actions as he whispers Shiro’s name, feels and hears his own name whispered back as the hand on his side runs to his hip, the other following suit, and Shiro’s slowly guiding him away from the wall.

Shiro’s kiss always tastes like fire and lightning, frissons of warmth, white-hot, running up his veins as he lets Shiro lead him to wherever it is — the bed, the couch, and the window. Keith tries to breathe, tries to keep his head above the water, as Shiro continues to kiss him deep, tongue and teeth and all, his hands continuing to press against his hips, and Keith can feel it, even over his dress shirt, feels the burning swath cut through fabric and skin and into his heart.

Keith can already feel himself hardening, feel his own cock swell in interest as Shiro pulls him close, flush, against him and Keith feels every line of that body against. His heart is beating at twice the normal speed, and every sliver of Shiro’s—hand, tongue, skin—on him is electric.

Shiro’s hands slowly climb up his body, over his shoulder and around his neck, thumbs trailing the edges of his jaws and Keith’s own hands are busy, running through dark hair and tan skin.

Kissing Shiro was—and Keith has a lexical gap here—always amazing, and it doesn’t matter how long it’s been, how many times they’ve done this over the years, but when Shiro touches him and kisses him deep and long and hard, like he’s memorizing every part of Keith, it always leaves him light-headed, almost-dizzy and just riding on the wave of arousal.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers again, can’t raise the volume of his own voice as Shiro runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, taupe eyes crinkling at the edges as he pulls back and smiles that tight lipped smile and—

It’s been twenty years—twenty goddamn perfect years—and just the sight of Shiro smiling that one smile for him still has Keith’s heart ready to burst at the seams with the weight of so much fucking want and love that he can’t help but whimper, pulling Shiro close again and kiss him.

His fingers run over the collar of the coat, his lips burning against Shiro’s, swallowing the chuckle there, and Shiro looked goddamn good—like always, and he always does look good, and it doesn’t matter if it’s decked to the nines in a suit or in nothing but skin and morning sunlight creeping into their bedroom—and Keith wants him. Always have. Always will. Always.

Shiro gets it, he always does and that’s part and parcel of what makes Keith love him so much—part and parcel and just the entirety of it—and his husband is helping him take the coat off, lips still locked, and his hands skim over the muscled shoulders and biceps, sliding it off. Shiro manages to pull a hand out of the sleeve, probably—he’s not sure, his eyes are closed—and holds his cheek with it, thumb against his chin, as Keith helps him with the other.

Shiro’s in his dress shirt now, white, and it plays off the tan of his skin so well—gorgeous and singular and the best thing that’s ever happened to Keith, more than the academy, more than the spaceflight, more than Mars under his feet—and Keith starts to unbutton the shirt, trembling fingers that can’t seem to find the nubs, Shiro’s hands doing the same and Shiro just kissing him, and leaving him breathless and shivering.

“God,” Shiro whispers – voice lilting off the edge of the cadence of his own breathing, and Keith sympathizes with the sentiment when he feels fingers on his skin under the shirt, on his shoulder and the seam where arm meets chest. The buttons under his fingers come undone, and he feels his husband’s own skin—and he’s known this, has become intimately familiar with this over the years and, for some reason, it still feels like the first time—and Shiro’s smiling again, tight-lipped and bright and Keith has to press back.

Has to feel the line of Shiro’s lips against his own, his fingers running down the skin above the veins in his husband’s neck, and the breath of air that escapes in too-fast flits, fanning above Keith’s own lips. Shiro’s always been addictive – addictive in his taste, the scent of cedar lining something intrinsically his own, one that reminds Keith of rum and whiskey atop the academy’s roof and the constellations above—reminds him of shuttle fuel and mess hall coffee—and it’s more than just taste and scent. Shiro’s blinding, untethered smile, the crinkle of his taupe eyes and that unyielding kindness and it’s just too much, far too much for Keith.

Keith whispers his name again, and Shiro hums, and his fingers are trembling as they try to unbutton the rest of the shirt and they almost fail, motor function and synapses distracted and overpowered by the white-hot, red-lined lightning of Shiro’s touch, but they managed to pull it off, Shiro helping him all the way, smiling.

Gold-tan skin, heart simmering under the surface and Keith doesn’t know if the shirt’s on the ground, or still tucked into Shiro’s pants or whatever, what he wants is to touch and the scent of cedar is heady, leaves him numb, but Shiro is warm and Keith doesn’t let himself hesitate. Around Shiro, he never feels like he’s on the wrong foot.

Shiro seems to have the same idea—who was he kidding, being together this long, Keith can guess the shift and nuances of his husband’s moods in the subtleties of his touch—and his own shirt is unbuttoned and slowly coming off him, the rough pad of Shiro’s fingers cruising over his skin, leaving patches where hair stand on end, his nerves ignited. All the while, Shiro doesn’t stop kissing him, doesn’t stop letting him breathe the edge of his own name falling from smiling lips and the lightness of it all, the intimacy—older, not as rapid and burning like a comet, but still warm, still enveloping, a star’s permanence—has Keith’s toes curling in his shoes.

“C’mon,” Keith hums at the rasp in Shiro’s voice, the hardness in between his legs taut against the fabric of his jeans. Shiro’s hands run down his bare back, thumb grazing the dip of his spine and Keith presses himself against the gold skin, his own hands around Shiro’s neck, heart-to-heart. “C’mon, baby—“

Keith whines, needy and flustered, high-pitched edging down his throat and curling around his chest. Shiro doesn’t use the endearment often, just on the rare times he wants Keith pliant and needy, and fuck if it’s not the best thing Keith’s heard, the kind that has his knees turning jelly.

“I got you, alright,” He hears the word through gritted teeth, as lips return to lathe softly against his jaw, the skin under the lobe of his ear, and Keith knows that Shiro and the entire world can hear his heart hammering against his ribcage. “I’ll make you feel good, Keith.”

 _I know_ is at the edge of his own lips, but Keith knows he doesn’t have to say it. Shiro will always be there to catch him when he hurtles face-down into his own abyss.

 _You always do_ lingers in the graze of his own hands, light on Shiro’s cheeks, seeing the amber-taupe glow liquid in the hotel’s low light and the diffuse from Akihabara’s glow up the window.

Shiro turns his head and presses his lips against Keith’s thumb on his cheek, up an index finger and around the wedding ring of the middle. Keith is grateful for the arm around his waist, he’s long forgotten how to keep himself upright the moment Takashi Shirogane barreled into his life—riding the tail end of a silver asteroid, blinding in its intensity.

—and Shiro’s—

He’s pulling Keith back, to the bed, the ample space and the blankets and the duvets, and the back of his knees hit the edge, and Shiro’s leaning back, arms still around Keith and Keith can’t look away—wondering, for the moment, what magnitude of _good_ he had done in a past life for the world to give him this blissful present—and he can’t help but fall to his knees in the space of the mattress between Shiro’s parted legs, and he’s curling over his husband, long dark hair falling down the sides of his face, and Shiro’s fingers run through them—

The look of wonder and bliss in silver-taupe eyes, just as staggering as the day they first met, roommates in a space academy so many years ago—

Keith’s own heart is pounding, at twice the velocity and half the mass and the entirety of gravity contorting in his own vision, feeling the tension in the muscles of Shiro’s abdomen—feels the strength and the power under the skin, even though the years had given Shiro a healthy layer of weight, he was still impeccable, still _beautiful_ —

God, what did he do to get this man?

“Hey,” he whispers, smiling at the grin on Shiro’s lips, at the magnitude of love in his eyes and it’ll always be staggering and overwhelming, how ferocious the emotion was in Shiro’s eyes, the sight of it setting Keith on fire, imploding from the inside out, and leaving nothing but glorious ashes in their wake and he’s reborn, renewed.

“Hey to you, too.” Shiro answers, dimpled smile and crinkled eyes and the goddamn love of his life. “Happy fourth anniversary, Keith.”

Keith blinks, and he feels the sting in his eyes and the itch in his throat, coursing through the arousal and the heat. “Yeah. Happy fourth anniversary, Takashi.”

He’s pulled in, a hand on the back of his neck, as Shiro leans up to kiss him—softly, tenderly, like Keith’s fragile and important, _always was_ , and he knows it, knows it the way he knows his own breathing rushing through the tracts of his lungs—he’s pulled flush against the warm body once more, gently held to the side as Shiro turns them over.

Keith doesn’t fall off the edge. Shiro will never let him hurtle down by himself.

Shiro’s above him, the softness of the mattress adjusting to his weight under him, and searing fire and lightning tumbling in every cell of his body. The lips are on his chin, gradually moving down, over the curve of his jaw and into the hollow by his collarbones, and Shiro looks up at him, his eyes blazing. “If you could see yourself, Keith…”

Keith groans, can’t open his eyes past the half-lid they’ve fallen. “Stop being cheesy and get to it.”

There’s a hum as Shiro slides his lip against his chest, tongue lathing down the perimeter of his nipple. Keith shivers, biting his lip as his head falls back to the bed. “Always so impatient, Keith. We’re on our anniversary, we should be enjoying it, right?”

“Fuck,” Keith manages to get out as Shiro licks and sucks at his nipple, and his vision is flashing, feels the reverb of Shiro’s pleased hum against the sensitive nub, all nerves afire and his cock straining hard and painful against his pants and the weight of Shiro’s hip against it. “Takashi, _please._ ”

“Patience, baby,” Shiro breathes once he lets up, just for a moment, before he starts on the other and Keith’s lost control of his words and his coherence and whatever higher-plane functions his brain has—had.

“I’m _trying_ —oh, God—but an asshole’s in the way—“ the rest of his sentence is cut short, turning his words into short, rapid gasps as Shiro bites his the skin around his nipple, the sharpness adding an edge to the arousal, to the sensitivity and he’s hissing and groaning as Shiro licks the mark. “Fuck, Takashi.”

“Soon, baby. Plenty for you.” God _damn_ it. They’ve been together for so long, Keith sometimes forgets _how_ long but he’ll never get used to the intensity that Shiro brings with him, the soft-tender touches that has his entire body straining and tightening with so much as a sliver of attention. He’ll never get used to that singular attention Shiro places on him, above everything and everyone else and will never fail to make Keith feel like he’s orbiting up high past the atmosphere.

And—

Suddenly, there’s a hand on the bulge of his pants, pressing tight and massaging purposefully, and Keith can’t believe, not even for a fucking second, that the mewling cry, the whimper that he hears is coming from his own lips. He’ll never believe the neediness and the wanton ring of the cry, the indecent need to be undone and ravished and he’s burning on a pyre of his own making.

His hips stutter, pressing into the hand, but another grips them tight, holds them to the mattress and the whimper turns to a groan—fucking finally—and Keith doesn’t know what to do with the machine-gun rapid fire of his heartbeat at the revolving, repeating realization that he can buckle and toss and twist and Shiro will always hold him down.

“Tak—ahh, fuck—Takash—shit.” Intelligent words, drawn out from a sharp mind and Keith can’t help but paw at Shiro, at his side as his husband continues to kiss downwards, down his navel and the belt around his jeans are slowly loosened, and Shiro smiles and he can fucking hear it as lips attack the skin above his groin. “Please, I want—fuck.”

And Shiro knows what he wants—doesn’t even need to ask, all it takes is the fluctuations in his pitch—and it’s just amazing—

How Shiro can undo his pants with a hand, while the other is groping and tight and warm on Keith’s bulge and _holding_ him down as Keith budges and struggles, watching more gold skin, thick and muscled thighs and the sheer, thin boxers unable to hide Shiro’s own cock, head peeking out of the left hemline.

And God—he wants that—he wants that _now_ , and he can already imagine, can start recalling the strain of his lips and his jaw as he tries to take it all in, Shiro’s size—like the rest of him, too-large, too-big for his own human form—and he wants that sting and the aching in his jaw and his throat and he wants the taste and scent of Shiro’s musk—

“Takashi, please.”

And—

It’s still unbelievable how Shiro just—blusters and his control falters at those two words from Keith, and he can see the own need and want painting across Shiro’s face, the furrow of his brows, the helpless, almost desperate tinge of liquid-taupe and the trembling of his own hand as he pulls Keith’s pants off—and Keith just needs to look at him, just whisper his name in a voice the volume barely above the sound of his own breathing—

And Shiro’s groaning, lips against the skin above his groin, and long, legs are moving, over Keith, always careful not to hurt him, and Keith’s hands rise of their own accord, clutching at the thin, black boxers—God, _his_ favorite because they absolutely _do_ not hide anything and they accentuate _everything_ , the perfection that was Takashi Shirogane—and he’s pulling them off, the trail of hair down Shiro’s navel and down his legs and thighs smoothened by the boxers running down, and it’s claustrophobic and suffocating—in a good way, in a god damn good way—being in between Shiro’s legs like this, and his cock rigid and straight, pressing against the taut belly and he feels the lips on his own skin running over the crease of his thighs—

Keith’s own pants are gone, bunched around his knees or maybe off them or, you know what, he doesn’t really care. Shiro’s dick is hard and big, God, larger than anything he’s had, and his balls are taut and they’re not hanging, they’re bunched and pulled, thin black hair decorating the sides and up Shiro’s perineum.

Shiro kisses the line of his thighs, the creases and Keith hears the softly-spoken words—

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

And Keith can’t help but moan as Shiro’s hands run down the sides of his thighs, lips marking the insides, and he knows Shiro can see how erect he is, straining against his own underwear and Shiro’s slowly pulling that away, too—

And he can’t help it, not anymore, and Keith reaches up, sliding his own palms against the underside of Shiro’s thighs, feels the coil of muscle and strength and he grazes his nails against the skin, and hears a hiss from down below, and the idea—

No matter how long it has been, the idea that Keith can still pull a sound like that from Shiro is enough for his cock to bob in interest, rising from its rest on Keith’s groin and he feels Shiro’s breath fan over it—

Shiro’s dick above him twitches impatiently, and Keith is nothing but determined, so he reaches up with a hand—and Shiro groans, whispers Keith’s name as his fingers wrap around the straining organ, the warmth and the heat and the _rigidity_ and the size of it. He pumps it for a moment, sliding his hand slowly down the velvety skin, and Shiro’s legs tremble a bit as his supine form changes, resting his weight on his chest as his back arches and his hips come closer—

Keith looks down, and sees Shiro looking up at him—eyes almost black with heat— “Please.”

And Keith can’t do anything when Shiro says that word, in that voice, with that look in his eyes. Shiro’s hips lower even further, and Keith feels the head of Shiro’s dick against his lips and they part open—

And, there—the straining, the attempt to fit all of it in his mouth, as Shiro hisses and bucks a bit, and he’s warm and big in Keith’s mouth, the slight tang of salt and just Shiro against his tongue, the scent of cedar and musk high up his nose as he takes more of Shiro’s dick in, tries to even his breathing out as his jaw starts to ache at the sides, but he can do it, it isn’t the first, and he wasn’t a top student in the academy for _nothing._

He chokes as he feels Shiro’s hands move under his thighs and pull them up, and the graze of his own dick against Shiro’s chin has him trembling, ragged breathing around the dick in his mouth as more slides in. He feels Shiro breathing against the skin of his entrance and, Gods, Shiro’s always amazing when he eats Keith out like a goddamn morsel, all slurping and saliva and tongue and the image, the idea—the anticipation—has him moaning around Shiro’s dick in his mouth, and his husband hisses, whispering his name brokenly, debauched.

Keith bobs his head, tries to get Shiro’s dick even deeper, and his hands are still grazing up the underside of Shiro’s thighs, reaching up to squeeze at the plumpness of his ass. Shiro’s groan hitches, breaks, and Keith feels hot air against his entrance and—

Shiro, voice broken and needy and desperate, whispers something Keith did not expect _._

_“Itadakimasu.”_

He did not—

Keith’s eyes are wide, unbelieving, as the word sinks in—

Only for it to fizz out and sputter and die as Shiro’s tongue is lapping at his puckered hole, and Keith’s entire body starts contorting, Shiro’s grip on him tight and unyielding, and he moans around the dick in his mouth, breathing out just in time as it’s sheathed, sliding all the way in.

And Keith just keeps breathing around it, keeps moaning as Shiro’s tongue starts circling the hole, the rigid muscle on the sensitive skin, loosening it, pleasure running up his spine and flooding his veins until his own thighs are trembling, and he’s sure Shiro can feel it, like always—and it’s just one part of Keith, one part among a million others, one-fourth of the entirety that made him who he was that Shiro knows, that Shiro’s imprinted into his soul and skin—and he knows Shiro will understand the need, the ache—

And Keith knows what Shiro wants, too, as he tries to focus through the blurriness of his eyes as Shiro’s hips buck, and Keith tastes pre-cum and what else on Shiro’s dick, letting his tongue lathe and traces the grooves and the veins and the underside of the head—

He can’t wrap his mind around the twin sensations – the feeling of Shiro’s dick in his mouth, each pulsation detectable against his tongue, the weight and the size and the length of it down his throat and the slow, almost-painfully languid gyrating of Shiro’s hips as he slides the dick out and back down Keith’s throat, and the wet tongue, relentless, against Keith’s own hole, the unyielding attention and the frenzied lapping and writhing that has him whimpering in whatever puffs of air he can manage to get out—

And Shiro’s lips are on the peripherals of his hole, the tongue licking into it, and it’s just—

Keith instantly relaxes, and feels the tongue _inside_ , and it’s warm and frenetic and Keith’s hands are tight as they squeeze Shiro’s ass, unable to do anything as his thighs tremble and the dick in his mouth twitching with every fluctuation of the ring of muscle and he doesn’t even realize that he’s still bobbing his head, still pressing his nose over and over against Shiro’s scrotum, musk ingrained into his nostrils like a fucking tattoo—

He doesn’t miss the slurping noise—obscene and indecent and improper and fuck if it’s not the _hottest_ thing he’ll ever hear.

It’s been decades, and it certainly still is.

He pulls a hand down, presses a finger against the dick in his mouth and wets it, just as Shiro continues to tongue-fuck him until his entire vision is white, and only the wet-warmth down his ass and the dick in his mouth are the only things he can still feel. His erection is straining, unattended, but he doesn’t reach out for it—he knows Shiro will just bat them away—and it’s not really noticeable, not with the way Shiro’s tongue is inside him, pushing deeper and deeper in, frissons and ribbons of pleasure and heat overloading his veins, echoes of tongue against skin reverberating in his ears.

He pulls his finger away and reaches back up and Keith starts to prod around the tight ring, brushing the hair away as he slowly massages his finger into Shiro—

His husband’s hips buck wildly, and the dick in Keith’s mouth sinks even _deeper_ and Shiro groans a loud ‘ _fuck’_ against Keith’s hole, ass pushing back to take more of the finger in—

And Shiro is blazing hot and fucking _tight_ around his finger, deep in Keith’s own mouth and sweat running down his body, gleaming gold skin and trembling thighs and electric. The muscle around Keith’s fingers constrict and loosen, in tandem with every bob of his head and lick of his tongue against Shiro’s dick, and Shiro’s tongue inside him stringing them along like a fucked-up line of causality.

He curls his finger in, looking for that nub of softness that he knows will set Shiro off, and when his finger grazes the edge, Shiro trembles _violently_ as more pre-cum drips into Keith’s mouth, and it’s all he can taste as Shiro squeezes his thighs and breathes—

“Baby, baby, oh God, not yet, you’re too good, don’t wanna come yet, please—“

Keith stills his finger, lets it rest against Shiro’s prostate, just humming around the member in his mouth and Shiro’s drawn-out, gasping against his hole as his thighs try to stay upright instead of pushing into Keith and letting loose—

“Christ, baby, you’re too amazing,” Shiro breathes, laughs—recklessly—and the flush on his cheeks has his eyes shining and Keith can’t really say anything with the dick in his mouth on how his heart swells bigger than Jupiter at the sight of a helpless, blissful Shiro in his hands. “God, you’re too perfect.”

Keith moans around the dick as Shiro resumes licking and rimming and tongue-fucking him, and the finger up Shiro’s ass is moved gently, slowly massaging the prostate to a gentle, relaxed rhythm that has Shiro hissing and grunting, appreciative, and his voice has long broke, turned into sandpaper and gravel, Keith’s name like a gruff benediction that has his thighs trembling as he tries to get that tongue in _deeper._

Maybe it’s always going to be like this, Keith thinks. Maybe the intensity and the rush and the deluge of emotion, passion burning brighter than any north star, maybe all of it will always be like this. Maybe Shiro will always touch him and kiss him and lathe him in a maelstrom of fire-hot touches and maybe Keith will always want him, want him to feel good like how Shiro wants to make him feel, wants him just as strongly as he did the day he met Shiro, want his smile and his reverberating laughter and love with the same intensity as he wants the tremble up his thighs and the taste of his cock down Keith’s throat.

And the thought shouldn’t feel like it’s everything precious and wonderful and just _warm_ in his hands, chained and locked permanently and he’ll never have to be afraid of it disappearing – he shouldn’t feel that swell of excitement the size of Olympus Mons, right? They’ve been together for so long, he’s expected the fire to have simmered back to embers, but the inferno in his chest makes him think otherwise. But if it is, if what he and Shiro shared through the decades is still as strong as it was all those years ago, then the thought – the idea – isn’t half-bad. No. It’s not bad at all.

The hand on his thigh pads slowly inward, smooth and soft and gentle. Shiro’s barrage on his entrance abates for the moment, and Keith slows his ministrations against Shiro’s prostate—Shiro’s moving, pulling out of his mouth and Keith can’t help but follow it, not wanting out, the burn mixing with the release of tension in his jaws leaving him stuttering. He doesn’t notice the spit down his chin and his cheeks, or the trail of it from his tongue to the head of Shiro’s dick, and Keith certainly doesn’t see the dripping of pre-cum as his tongue rises to get a few licks in, feels it twitching against his tongue with every movement.

Shiro inhales—almost desperately—and the hands on Keith’s thighs grope unhurriedly, around the side of his own erection still straining and painful. Keith pulls his finger out of Shiro’s ass, slowly, licking down the shaft to the scrotum, the rough, almost-striated skin and takes one in his mouth, just as Shiro leans back down to do the same on Keith’s.

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” Keith manages to get out, voice hoarse and winded through gritted teeth. Shiro hums, and the lap of his tongue has Keith closing his eyes as he collapses back on to bed.

Shiro pauses, looking up at him—in reverse—heated taupe searing his skin raw. “It’s only polite to give thanks before eating, right?”

And just—

The stupidity of it—

When Keith remembers it all—

Just how typical it was of Shiro—

Has him laughing, grinning against Shiro’s balls and the bubbling in his chest and in his throat turns to a blown-out moan as Shiro takes Keith’s dick in a hand and takes him all in. His hips buckle, and he raises his foot up to the bed, spreads his leg wider—obscenely—and Shiro’s grip still pushes him down to the mattress as he feels that tongue circle the underside of the head, a graze of teeth against the veined skin has him keening.

Shiro’s mouth on him is always, fuck, amazing.

Just. Fucking perfect.

Like the rest of him.

Keith’s hands are still on Shiro’s ass, his dick straining against the muscled belly, and Keith pulls him down, changes the angle so he can start lapping at Shiro’s perineum.

The taste of it is exactly what it is – skin. The same kind when you suck your finger – the line of something salty, can be a bit distracting with the line of hair around Shiro’s entrance, but in the midst of it, almost faint, there’s something that he can only describe as Shiro’s – and it’s addicting, tantalizing. He wants more.

Shiro’s mouth and tongue on his dick as his hips buckling like mad—unable to move freely as Shiro holds him down, but it doesn’t matter. Keith’s grazing up, pulling Shiro down so he can lick around the muscle, feel it relax and tighten against his tongue and feel every fucking shiver that runs down Shiro’s spine, every drawn-out, whispered _“Baby, fuck, that feels good”_ against his dick and the power—the belief, the raw energy of being able to undo and deconstruct Shiro in his hands like this—it leaves him heady and mindlessly, blissed-fuckingly-out amazing.

And, for a moment, he can almost _understand_ why Shiro would say _itadakimasu_ in the middle of sex.

Almost.

He bites the plump skin of Shiro’s left ass cheek, leaving a mark—a new one amongst the many others, others gone with time, others in need of a renewal—and Shiro’s yelp that cuts into a sigh, and has him swallowing Keith’s dick in one go, has Keith gasping aloud. Fuck, it’s amazing how he doesn’t just self-combust and _die_ when he has sex with Shiro.

It’s just. Too much.

Overwhelming.

And he has forever for it.

The thought lances past through all the others – the arousal and the touches and the heat – and blinds everything with euphoria, and he’s raising his head, feels Shiro loosen against his tongue and he flicks it up, and down, feels the quivers in the thighs that are almost fierce in their strength, and he pushes his tongue in.

 _“Baby, yes, please.”_ Shiro grits out in Japanese, and Keith can’t help but hum and moan against Shiro’s parted cheeks, at the sight of it—goddamn beautiful, gold-tan skin and that rose bud in the center, and hearing Shiro talk in his (their) mother tongue has him driving in with more enthusiasm.

Shiro doesn’t always speak in Japanese—a by-product from a childhood fear of ostracism that took a while to outgrow—and Keith always cherishes the times that Shiro reverts to it, unaware or no.

The hole is covered in spit, and Keith dives back in, pushing deeper as Shiro takes him again, bobbing his head, the feeling of the grooves of Shiro’s mouth and throat, the graze of his teeth and the slightly-rough pad of his tongue against his dick.

Keith continues to massage the skin of Shiro’s ass, pushing and prodding at the skin, forcing Shiro’s legs to part wider until he’s practically laying his ass flat on Keith’s face, his weight against the entirety on Keith’s body almost choking but he likes it. Keith likes the feeling of being smothered like this, always liked it when Shiro fell asleep over him, face against his neck and his large form over Keith’s like a protective blanket and Keith loves the heaviness, the tightness and the uncompromising heat that mirrored a furnace.

And Keith’s always known—despite Shiro’s size, and his presence and his confidence—that when Shiro was around the other, it was Keith who had the reins. It’s always Keith in Shiro’s mind when it comes to bed, when it comes to making love and when Keith whispers to part his legs wider, Shiro only groans and obeys, the squelching of the saliva against the muscle is a fucking orchestra in his ears and Keith makes an appreciative sound at his handiwork, hisses as Shiro takes his balls into his mouth, before going back in to taste that willing, beautiful bare ass.

 _“Yes, baby—ugh—you’re so good, fuck.”_ Shiro grunts, nose pressed against the side of Keith’s dick. Keith hums, continues his attack on Shiro’s entrance, slurping and licking and breathing through his mouth like a drowning man reaching air. This close, this tight and this warm against Shiro’s ass, it almost is like he’s lost at sea—except he’s not drowning, and if he does, Shiro will fish him out no matter where he ends up.

And it doesn’t matter if it is a few millimeters up his own ass or three kilometers across the Pangboche crater or just in this half-decade long marriage they’ve been in, he knows Shiro won’t leave him by his lonesome. Not even for a second.

Just the thought of it, how strongly Shiro sticks to that promise – till death do us part, or even further than that – has Keith brimming with a need to just make him feel good, make him feel as wonderful and as perfect as Shiro does.

When he feels fingers near his ass, Keith pulls away and lets himself breathe as he kneads the skin under his hands and he presses a kiss against Shiro’s thigh. “Takashi, fuck me.”

Shiro’s answering groan, lips prettily wrapped around his dick has Keith biting his lip hard, running his nails down gold-tan skin. “Please, baby, fuck me.”

Maybe it’s the pleading note in Keith’s voice—and he knows that Shiro will do _anything_ for him if he asks in that tone—or maybe it’s also the use of the endearment, something Keith doesn’t really say—only on the most exceedingly rare moments—that has Shiro groaning, pulling away from Keith’s deck, and smiling at him. It’s one part lust, two parts anticipation and just the entirety of a burning fire in his eyes that’s more than the physical, the tangible and it never fails to make Keith feel like he’s riding a rollercoaster off the edge of a cliff without the fear of falling.

Shiro moves, lifts his legs and his weigh and Keith turns his head to angle a kiss against the shin of Shiro’s left as it passes over him, and he can breathe freely, feel the sweat cover his skin, sticking the bedsheet to his back, and his hair against his forehead and he’s lying there, Shiro’s touch fading for a moment as he rummages in their bag.

He watches the play of light against the expanse of Shiro’s back, the pale-light on gold-tan skin, running shadows and light on his outline, naked skin and muscle—the burn mark on his hip when the frying pan had slipped from his hand, or the cut on his right leg in a cycling accident—all of it, his. Forever.

When Shiro returns, lube in hand, he places it by the side of the bed as he crawls over Keith, big hands on his cheeks and kisses him deep and thorough,

“You okay?” He asks when he pulls back, and Keith nods, not trusting his voice right now as he puts a hand on the other’s cheek, thumb against Shiro’s lower lip. It’s red and raw, but the smile that grows on it is gleaming, and Shiro turns his head to kiss the inside of his wrist. Dark hair is stuck to his own forehead, and the flush is still there, and so is the slick glow of his skin from the now-drying seat.

Just the man he loves with all his fucking heart.

“Yeah,” Keith manages to get out, hoarsely. He blinks away the blurriness. “Perfect.”

Shiro takes a long look at him—affection gleaming in between the slight concern and just something heated, something gentle and something _undefinable_ just for Keith alone, all in the taupe—before he leans close and kisses him.

When he parts, he whispers. _“I love you.”_

Keith blinks, his eyes close on their own and he breathes tight, before he breathes it back out. “I love you, too.”

He’s not going to wax poetics anymore—not on how the words are always going to sound like a promise renewed, a vow forever unbroken, and how it feels like the gold-gleam of an aria bursting at the seams, outward and lining his skin with gentle fire and sunlight, like he’s on high and enraptured. Prose and poetics can’t do shit for the way his heart stutters and misjudges its own cadence when the words sink in, or the way the tracts of his lungs suddenly ease out and he’s breathing nothing and everything and it feels both like he’s sinking into a pit of warmth and rising like a raptor in flight. Words can’t mean for shit when they only meet a quarter of what he means when he says the words, when he says it back to Shiro and he sees the gentleness in the taupe grow bigger than possible, like Keith’s given him the most valuable, most goddamn beautiful thing in the world and that he can’t believe he’s worthy of it – and it can’t do shit for the realization that it’s Keith, in all this, that Shiro sees. Just him and nothing but him – ever since – from the start, from the moment he knocked on the door and met his roommate, the day they stood atop the academy’s roof and danced around to Fleetwood Mac and Elvis Presley, their first kiss swathed in rum and whiskey, and until now—after the spaceflights and the g forces and their names emblazoned in gold on a plaque on Mars’ surface.

Words fall short, anecdotes are too inaccurate and platitudes can only cover so much.

Funny how something simple like “I love you” is both everything and nothing.

Shiro—

—smiles at him, leans down to press his lips gently against Keith’s, before he feels his hands run down his sides, over his thighs and grazing his still-erect dick, and there’s the sound of the cap being opened, and Keith’s eyes are closed as Shiro continues to kiss him, tenderly. Nothing but his lips against Keith’s, a heady drug – eclipsing all his senses.

And it’s not just about the satisfaction, or the fulfillment of arousal, when Shiro kisses him. It’s just—the reverb and resurrection and the resolution of every crevice and nook that’s littered on his skin. Motion and physics distort in his vision, but Shiro’s kiss grounds him, pulling him to home.

He feels Shiro’s hands against his thighs and softly part them, wider, and he feels the prod of fingers, wet and slick with lube, against his entrance and, God, he wants that. It’s just—different when Shiro fucks him. They switch it up, almost constantly, but Keith’s not going to lie—he’ll always be a sucker for Shiro fucking him.

Just the fullness of it—the feeling of Shiro’s dick inside him, almost bursting at the seams, almost too full and he knows, God he knows, that it’ll be rigid and he’ll be taut and ready to implode at a moment’s notice—the squeeze of it inside him, the fact that Shiro is inside him, connected far closer than usual, it’s all just—fuck.

“You know,” Shiro says, and the faintness of it—the breathlessness, the hoarse note, the tightness—stops Keith’s throat and twists his spine; “I’ve been telling people that you’re my husband for years and I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

It’s funny, too—distantly; a ripple of a laugh in his dragged-in, trembling breath—that he’s heard the guys whine and fucking moan about preparing and shit, but the way Shiro smiles into it, the way his fingers curl and prod, and just the fucking honesty of his words has Keith holding on to him like a lifeline, leg curling over Shiro’s, arms rising to lock shoulders against him, lip pressed to the skin of Shiro’s chin.

And that’s because it’s Shiro. God, it’s been so long and he still does it—just Takashi Shirogane felling another unfortunate victim, the focus of his incredible eyes and the gorgeous movement of his hands and the soothing lilt of his voice.

“Takashi,” he gets out, and the rough catch of his own voice is almost startling. Words belong to other people; words are for feelings small enough to fit into capsulated syllables; this is so much more. “Takashi—I need—I need you to fuck me; I—”

That pulls a sharp gasp off of Shiro’s lips, and it cuts right through him and burrows into his bone marrow, and it’s all he can do to cling to consciousness as Shiro abandons every last pretense of collectedness and the press of his finger deep into Keith’s— “Just a bit, baby. I’ll make you feel good.”

“You always do,” the confession is pulled from his lips before Keith’s mind can follow, eyes shut at the press of, God, Shiro’s finger inside him. He just wants—he just wants to be close, closer, as close as it’s possible to fucking get; wants to be full and overflowing; wants to be melting at the edges and running down Shiro’s skin; wants to taste every part of him—

“Good. You deserve to feel good,” Shiro says, so low Keith feels it resonating against his throat almost more than he hears it; “always.

“I can if you fuck me,” Keith manages. “Stop talking and fucking do someth—” Shiro’s finger delves in deeper, and Keith just—squirms, and lets the breath leave him in a completely different configuration than he’d intended. “Ahh—”

Shiro’s mouth moves up under Keith’s ear, then across the shell—hot-wet breath and a whisper of warmth as Shiro’s lips part, and then he nips the curve of Keith’s ear gently, and somehow he’s fucking multitasking enough to be fussing around with both hands at the same time. That’s just Shiro—all of it. Talent and skill and everything Keith would have hated, when he was younger, when he thought the world was something he didn’t need. He would have never realized that the best thing waiting for him was asleep across the dorm room, dark hair and muscled arms and gentle smile.

His fingertip presses back in—slick this time, and cooler, drenched in something, and the slide of it against the tingling nerves is transcendent and fucking torturous, and Keith wants so much more. More. Everything. When it comes to Shiro, it’s always more.

Since words seem to have lost the slightest semblance of meaning in his brain, he tries to communicate that by rocking his hips down hard against Shiro’s hand—and gets himself a fucking choked-off noise from Shiro’s mouth, and the finger buried up to the bottom knuckle, and God, that’s good—

Keith swallows again in an ultimately doomed attempt to get his throat to clear—it’s hard to do much of anything with even a remote level of competence with Shiro’s finger up his ass, shifting slowly, dragging all these unprecedented flares and tingles out of his unsuspecting nerves. It’s all gone to shit and electrons, veins afire and vision flaring.

And he just wants—

“More,” Keith croaks.

His voice sounds strangled—choked and hoarse—to his own ears, but Shiro’s next breath catches so hard that he must be doing something really, really right regardless. Shiro’s hand withdraws, and Keith hears his traitor of a voice fucking whimper at the loss of the heat and the fullness and the friction. Shiro distracts him with a long trail of wet kisses back and forth across his ribs, which sustains the frenetic rhythm of his breath and the arc of his ever-tightening spine; and then—

Shiro drives in just a fraction harder the next time, and Keith can hear him panting softly, which is hot that Keith’s head spins like a dervish, whipping the rest of him into the frenzy— he hooks his one arm around the back of Shiro’s neck and tries to haul him in, tries to drag him nearer, tries to get closer than the impossible closeness of this—

“Fuck me already,” Keith manages to grunt out, lips never closing as pleasured groans escape.

And Shiro buries that perfect face in Keith’s neck and laughs again, like Keith’s shitty-ass personality is the best damn thing he’s ever seen—and it’s just wonderful, that no matter how long, Shiro still looks at him like that. Like he’s the best he’s ever seen.

And thing is—

Even back at the start, when Shiro first made love to him in the academy, nobody’s ever told Keith how honest this would be. It’s always how wet it was, how hard and how filling. No one ever mentioned about how honest, how fucking true every little thing is that passes here. When Shiro’s hair line is drenched, when sweat is dripping off his skin and there are small sweat puddles in the insides of his elbows and the back of his knees and down his thighs and it should feel disgusting but no—it feels grounding, validating.

Even now, with Shiro looking at him—heated and wanting—you can’t lie here. It’s not the speaking kind of honesty, or the bare skin nakedness. It’s past all the intuition and it’s the fucking truth of somebody here. Keith can see every open channel, every nuance of who Shiro is here—and it’s always the same, no matter how long—when all he sees staring back is just the fucking love and affection tumbling out like it’s impossible for Shiro to keep it all in.

“You’re so,” Shiro kisses under Keith’s chin, then down his chest, “so fucking beautiful.”

Keith whines, pushing his head against Shiro as he hears a chuckle, legs tight around the body as the fingers pull out and he feels something else—

Something larger and better.

Shiro sits up, shifts back, holds each side of Keith’s hips with his hands—

And it’s just amazing, how, after all this time—

The press of Shiro’s dick against his entrance still feels like it’s the first time, the line of pain searing up his spine. His eyes close shut, trying to fixate on the harsh note underscoring Shiro’s breathing—the panting—the slow, gratified groan that runs over his lips and echoes against Keith’s.

And Keith wants it—wants the pain and the too-much and the sweltering heat of Shiro’s body crammed in against his, pressing hard, overwhelmingly invasive and so good—

The last gasp of space between them vanishes as Shiro’s fucking dick slides deeper in his ass, and even more fucking impossible than that is the way the slap of Shiro’s flesh on his makes him tremble.

Shiro’s forehead rests against his own, and Keith holds on to him this close, skin against skin, and nothing else, the face he’s seen so many times, the last thing he sees every time he closes his eyes before he sleeps and the first one that greets him in the morning, light glinting off the gold-tan skin. Years had gone by, and he’s still beautiful. He’s still wonderful and bright.

Shiro’s eyes are molten, and when he breathes, it’s raspy and broken. “This won’t be long.”

Keith feels his lips curl up in a smile. “Being thirty catching up to you, Takashi?”

And Shiro’s grinning, laughing, and his cock twitches inside Keith with every note, and Keith’s laughing back, and the weirdest-not-weird thing is that it’s totally normal, for them to laugh and joke like this. The routine, the softness of it, says more to Keith than anything else.

Shiro takes his lips again, kissing him deep, as he starts to move his hips, and Keith gasps into his lips, the size and the length of it, just diving deeper and fuller into him. Shiro, probably, doesn’t even need to angle it for his dick to drive against Keith’s prostate and have him crying out.

He’s long gone past the idea of holding back, grunting and moaning—his vision turning into rapid flashes of black and white—as Shiro starts to fuck him faster. It’s not going to be long. This is true. They’ve been playing with each other in the last—what? Hour?—that Keith can already feel the tension in his groin, and down his legs. It’s both recognizable and foreign, the rushing of his climax but Shiro isn’t letting him come haphazardly, just for the sake of it.

Shiro pulls him tight against him, parts his lips with his tongue and his foot finds hold on the mattress and he starts pounding deep and hard into Keith, and it’s not air that escapes Keith’s lips now—just the sounds, high-pitched and uncontrollable, pouring out like floodwater—and the tight, hard muscles of Shiro’s chest rubbing against his nipples, the taut belly against his own erection providing wondrous friction—

The fucking slapping sound of skin against skin as Shiro hikes his legs higher and, _God_ , the change of angle makes the dick in his ass feel like it’s grown larger and, fuck, Shiro knows every weak spot, every soft and pliant region of his skin—all of it—that Keith can only let go and let the pleasure run through him, whispering Shiro’s name in between the sobs and the gasps, the rhythmic, cyclical push and pull of the dick against his prostrate making him sweat all over, twitching and reactive and Shiro just pressing kiss after kiss against his lips, his chin, on his nose—

He hears “I love you” over and over in his ears, and Keith’s eyes squeeze shut, tight, as he blubbers, unaware of the shit he’s saying, all his senses directed to the lightning-arc continuously snapping at every vein across his body, Shiro’s skin like fire against his, and, like always—it feels amazing, feels fucking amazing.

And then, there’s a hand on his dick, wrapped tightly around it and pumping it, in tandem with the needy, whimpering sounds Keith is making, and he feels the tremble of Shiro’s legs, and he knows that neither of them are that far off from the edge.

“Baby, fuck—“ Shiro groans as he works his dick deeper in and Keith squeezes, unable to help the contraction of his muscles as his prostrate is massaged fast and hard.

Keith pulls his head close, basically shoves his tongue into Shiro’s parted lips and kisses him deep as Shiro picks up the pace, rushing towards the finish line.

Keith feels it first—the tightness in his belly, the electric-fire sensitivity of his skin, just the constant roll of Shiro’s hips and his dick digging deep, and he’s chasing after his orgasm, tightening around Shiro as he starts to cum, wetness growing between them as Keith groans—loud and untethered—and Shiro bites his neck as his hips stutter and tremble, and he cums as well.

Shiro groans aloud, Keith blissed-out against his chin, and he sees the taupe eyes go hazy for a moment, all his muscles tense before the warmth starts to spread inside Keith, and Shiro starts breathing again—

Starts kissing the bitemark he’s left _again_ on Keith’s neck and Keith can only whimper at the feel of the tongue over the lingering sharpness, the twitching of the dick inside him against his prostrate, and his trembling legs falling to the sides, exhausted.

Keith’s breathing is heavy, like he’s trying to seep in air through molasses, but it’s the good kind of heavy, the one where Shiro kisses him and laughs breathlessly—

He can only pucker his lips tiredly, every bone and muscle in his body tired and drained, and Shiro traces his way down with the same soft kiss, over his chest and—

Shiro laps at the cum over his stomach and on his dick, the slightly rough texture of his tongue still sending little ribbons of pleasure up his nerves, but he’s too tired to do anything but groan and hiss as Shiro kisses his dick and cleans it of spunk.

He’s making his way down, past his balls and Shiro’s pulling himself out—and the absence of his dick inside has Keith moaning, unappreciative of the lacking fullness. Shiro chuckles, his own tones edged in that hazy, tired film that happens after sex and—

Hands part his legs as Shiro raises his hips tenderly, kissing the inside of his left thigh before he starts lapping at his own cum that’s leaked out of Keith. The feeling on his overstimulated skin has Keith trembling all over, at the rhythmic, circular motions of Shiro’s tongue, and his hands are bunched up in the sheets as Shiro continues to eat him out, eating his own cum and the idea has Keith’s dick twitching only once in interest—still too tired, well, for now.

Shiro lets him just lay there, moaning at each lap against his breach, at the swell and the gentle kisses against his skin until he’s pretty much fucking cleaned out. His hips are lowered—slowly and tenderly—and Shiro climbs over him, keeping his weigh on the mattress as he leans down and Keith opens his eyes wider, raising his head as Shiro kisses him.

God, he can taste Shiro’s cum in the kiss and it rips another faint mewl from Keith. Shiro breathes out a laugh, gentle notes in the silence of the hotel room, and the scent of cedar and sex and just Shiro up around him like a haze that brings him closer and closer to sleep.

Shiro pulls back a bit, looking down at him with bright taupe eyes, amusement shining in them. Keith frowns.

“What?”

He feels like he’s going to regret asking.

Shiro grins, cheeky, and answers. _“Gochisosama-deshita.”_

Keith blinks once—twice—unsure if he heard it right—

Before he groans, turning away from Shiro and pushing his face away. Shiro laughs – loud and full – and the arms around Keith pulls him close as his husband settles comfortably on his side. He keeps his eyes closed, but he can’t help the smile from forming on his lips – even if it’s because of a dumb thing – as Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s waist, still chuckling. A blanket somehow manifests over them, courtesy of Shiro’s talent of multitasking, and Keith feels Shiro press a kiss against his forehead, settling against the curve of Keith’s nose.

Keith reaches up and wraps his hand around Shiro’s middle, pulling him close, their legs tangled together. He opens an eye, and sees Shiro still looking at him, a second away from falling asleep but the smile is still on his face. Gentle, bordering the cresting wave of soft bliss and affection. Keith smiles back.

“Happy fourth anniversary, baby.”

Keith watches the gold flecks in his eyes gleaming, remembers meeting his roommate at the space academy, remembers the way he hugged Keith close—drunk and determined to reach the stars together, remembers the way he had looked the night he first made love to Keith and the tightness of his grip as they’re both launched into orbit. If he closes his eyes, it’ll be like the first time—all over again.

“Happy fourth anniversary, Takashi.”

* * *

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> this was brought to you by my own stupid work-lunch realizations:
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> i took my own prompt and ran away with it lol this s'posed to be hot, raunchy, toe-curling smut not emotional smut im sorry i cant write smut for shit
> 
> Come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny) and on [Tumblr](https://spaceboykenny.tumblr.com/)


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